


Rebuild

by d0g-bless (d0gbless)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Art will be added later, Depression, F/M, Fuck the Galaxy Garrison, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Pining, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reference to a Nicholas Cage Movie, Season 8 But Happier, Sexual Tension, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Shiro Rarepair Flash Bang 2019, reference to canon character deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 16:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21200723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d0gbless/pseuds/d0g-bless
Summary: At night, Shiro lies alone in a bed made for two, trying to remember the last time he’s slept without night terrors or panic attacks.He closes his eyes and recalls the sound of Pidge’s breathing and snores, her minty smell, watching the rise and fall of her side (she always slept on her left side), and the sweat-soaked covers they shared on particularly difficult nights.Nothing ever happened between them then. It was platonic. All of it. But knowing that she trusted him enough to let him zip up her suit, watch her and help her in her most vulnerable moments, and that she’d do the same for him, he can’t help but wonder: 'Is that what I’m missing from my life?'***Following the events of Season 8, a lonely and depressed Shiro reconnects with Pidge at the Garrison and realizes that maybe, just maybe, he's worthy of finding happiness and someone to share that happiness with.





	Rebuild

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is one of my favorite things I've written in a really, really long time.
> 
> Also, it's part of a Shiro Rarepair Flash Bang that's a month or two overdue in terms of posting; that said, the current lack of art will be updated once the artist gets back to me.

As a first-hand witness and accomplice of Galra cruelty, Shiro expects the rehabilitation process of his home planet to be a long one.

The Galra had destroyed him, left him bruised, battered, and broken in mind, body, and spirit. It’s not surprising that they’d do the same when it came to the very planet Shiro called home, once upon a time.

He no longer recognizes Earth as his home. It’s more than just the debris of once-towering buildings and landmarks; more than the difficulties of getting crops to grow and flourish as they once did; it’s more than all of these things.

All of his fellow Paladins (can he call himself one of them anymore?) are doing their own things. He’s not sure what Pidge is up to (something great, he’s certain of that much), but Hunk is starting up what is sure to be an amazing restaurant, Keith is off doing humanitarian missions across the galaxy, and Lance is home in Cuba, mourning the love of his life. Shiro finds a kindred spirit in Lance when it comes to the loss of a loved one, but at least Lance is working away the pain.

Shiro is not.

His Garrison apartment is empty, though that fact doesn’t stop Adam’s name from slipping from his lips when he enters.

He yearns for a connection to someone, to something. He misses sitting in the Black Lion’s cockpit, one of the few places he’s ever felt safe.  _ Atlas _ is nice, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the warmth emanating from Black’s golden eyes. Both of them had been broken by Zarkon in one way or another, and Black understood that.  _ Atlas _ , a mere infant in comparison to Black, did not.

At night, Shiro lies alone in a bed made for two, trying to remember the last time he’s slept without night terrors or panic attacks.

He closes his eyes and recalls the sound of Pidge’s breathing and snores, her minty smell, watching the rise and fall of her side (she always slept on her left side), and the sweat-soaked covers they shared on particularly difficult nights.

Nothing ever happened between them then. It was platonic. All of it. But knowing that she trusted him enough to let him zip up her suit, watch her and help her in her most vulnerable moments, and that she’d do the same for him, he can’t help but wonder:  _ Is that what I’m missing from my life? _

Sleep, as usual, doesn’t come that night.

* * *

Maybe it’s sleep deprivation, but Shiro swears he’s walked by Pidge at least three times at the Garrison. Last he’d heard, she was off-planet doing some tech support gigs. But she works at a breakneck speed, so it could be that she’s actually here.

The very notion of Pidge working at the Garrison is a laughable one. She’s smarter than the top brass by far, is certain to surpass her father and brother, and despises the Garrison. The few interactions he had witnessed between her and Iverson seemed polite, but her brittle tone and the fiery blaze in her eyes had spoken volumes more than the words flying out of her mouth.

Shiro doesn’t blame Pidge for that. The Garrison had lied about the cause of the Kerberos mission failure. The words “pilot error” don’t sit well with him, but he gets it. When your pilot and two crew members vanish, it’s only logical to blame it on the guy with a rare form of muscular dystrophy.

But threatening to charge a then-teenager, who had deserved to hear the truth about her family, with treason? That’s just extra salt to rub into the already festering wound.

He decides to hit the flight simulators — he’s got time and no classes left to teach for the day. Might as well escape reality for a little bit, right?

“Sorry, it’s closed.” Tubes and gears lay scattered on the floor from a gutted machine, surrounding someone’s lower half. They crawl back out, and lo and behold, Shiro isn’t sleep deprived! (Or at least not enough that he’s seeing doubles.) “Shiro?” Pidge blinks owlishly behind those oversized glasses. Shiro’s certain she doesn’t need them, but maybe that has changed. It’s been a few years, after all.

“Pidge?”

She leaps to her feet — and Shiro can’t help but say, “You’ve gotten taller!” It’s true; she’s maybe an inch or two taller, but the difference is big enough for Shiro to notice.

Pidge beams at him. “Yeah, just a bit. Time does that, you know.” She shakes her head, “Time is an absolute mess, though. Like, I don’t really know how old I am. Legally speaking, I’m like… what, twenty-two? But mentally, I’m around thirty, maybe? Minus the whole being a genius thing. Spending so much time in space really fucked me up.”

“You look great. And your hair...” he trails off.

“Oh, this?” she flips her ponytail over her shoulder. “Yeah, I grew it out.” Pidge scans over Shiro, narrowing her eyes, inspecting him for something, though Shiro doesn’t know what. “And you haven’t changed at all!”

Shiro manages a laugh. “My eyesight’s gotten worse.” He clears his throat. “Anyways, what brings you to the Garrison? I thought you were doing some stuff elsewhere.”

“You didn’t hear?” she asks. “They brought me on as a contractor. I’ve been working with as many Olkari as I can find for a terraforming project, and the Garrison wants me to start doing some terraforming out here. And you? You’re still here? At the Garrison?”

“They love me too much to let go of me.”

Pidge snorts. “Guess the Garrison hasn’t changed that much.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty accurate,” he pauses for effect, “Except we finally have a good commissary cook.”

“No way!” Pidge shoves at his shoulder, playful, like a cat.  _ Like a lioness. _

“Believe it.” Shiro shakes his head. “No, wait. I know you. You won’t believe it until you experience it for yourself. How about we get lunch? My treat.”

She grins at him from ear to ear. “Name the time, and I’ll see you there.”

* * *

It’s amazing, Shiro observes, how things so easily fall back into place with Pidge. Talking with her makes it feel like nothing has changed, though seeing Vrepit Sal shouting commands in the commissary kitchen is definitely a bit of a wake-up call.

Hearing him shout, “Order up!” is also an unexpected change — a good change, at that.

“Shiro, you should’ve warned me that this guy is in charge of the kitchens,” Pidge hisses. “His cooking was terrible on  _ The Atlas. _ I still can’t believe the Garrison brought him on—”

“Order up!”

“And that would be us.” Shiro gently elbows Pidge and lowers his voice. “Be polite. You know how these artist-types are.”

She sticks her tongue out at him, and he laughs.  _ Just like old times. _

Together, they approach the counter, walking side by side, one standing tall and proud in uniform while the other is ahead due to her poor posture.

“Looks good, Sal,” Shiro says. He cradles the tray Sal set on the counter in the crook of his good arm — not that his prosthetic  _ isn’t _ good — and Pidge frowns.

Sal flashes a toothy grin. “Thanks, Shiro. Learned it all from the best.” He glances to Pidge. “How’s the big guy doin’?”

“Oh, Hunk?” Pidge raises her shoulders in the smallest shrug. “Dunno. He’s pretty busy with his restaurant. We don’t talk as much as we used to.” She wilts a little, but forces herself to return the smile. “But I’m sure he’s doing well. If his restaurant keeps him too busy to not talk to me as often, business must be good.”

“Glad to hear it. Well, next time ya talk, tell him I say thanks, ya hear me? He taught me all I know. Saved my business — and the universe.” Hal loosens his orange headband and dabs at the sweat dripping off his forehead. “What a guy.”

Shiro thanks Sal once more, and he and Pidge find an open table in a busy cafeteria. “It’s been getting harder to find seating out here.” He balances the tray to the best of his ability, but it clatters to the table. Thankfully, Sal had set metal covers over the food to retain the heat. He removes the covers with a flourish and an overdramatic bow. “Ladies first.”

The aforementioned lady snorts at him before sitting down, and Shiro follows suit. Pidge narrows her eyes — or maybe she’s squinting to check his claim about how busy this area is. “You know, you could just use your prosthetic to put that down without risking our lives to—” Using her fork, Pidge stabs a blue-green tentacle sticking out of the bowl. It doesn’t move. “—whatever this is.”

Shiro grabs Pidge’s bowl from right beneath her wrinkled nose and tilts back its contents into his mouth. When he sets it back down, Pidge speaks again.

“I can tell your prosthetic is giving you trouble, Shiro.” Pidge pulls his bowl toward her before he can grab it, and downs it. She smacks her lips. “Not bad. Pretty good, actually.”

“Right? You should come here on Fridays, there’s this amazing —” Shiro is interrupted by the screech of her bowl sliding to his side of the table.

“Don’t play this game with me, Takashi.” She offers him an outstretched hand, her palm turned up, revealing an ugly burn scar for the world to see.

Shiro doesn’t remember how he got all of his scars, but he does remember how Pidge got that one: Her palm pressing against the back of his-but-not-quite-his hand, leaving behind a red ring at the base of her deft fingers, the panic in her voice, her holding him up with all of the strength she has.  _ My fault, all my fault _ .

He averts his gaze. He can’t look at her, he can’t. He just… “Can’t.”

“Good. Now give me your arm.”

“Can’t.”

Her sigh is the longest one Shiro’s ever heard and is also the most frustrated-sounding one. “OK, here’s how we are going to do this. Either I will get Iverson and tell him that your arm is hurting you, which means he’s going to round up the best Garrison medical staff to put you under and perform, like, hundreds of tests to fix a simple problem, or I can fix it in a place where you feel safe and comfortable. I’m going to give you sixty seconds to calm down enough to decide. Got it? One—”

Smooth and cool metal meets the sweaty and warm flesh of her hand. 

Pidge pats the back of Shiro’s mechanical hand as it rests flat on her palm. “Good call.”

* * *

His panic-addled brain had made it sound like telling Pidge to fix his arm in his apartment was a brilliant idea. Now that he stands there in the middle of the doorway, he realizes what a sad, dingy, little place he lives in; and worse yet, Pidge seems to know that, too.

He’s thankful that she doesn’t say anything, but a part of him wishes she would. The closest she’s gotten to saying something out of line (that really isn’t out of line) is “Jeez, you’d think the Garrison would give you a better place than this.”

She’s right, as usual. “It’s home,” he says lamely.

“It’s an apartment,” she replies. “Not a home.” Pidge rattles the toolbox she has to carry with both of her hands. “Where do you want to do this?”

Shiro isn’t a superstitious man, but sometimes he swears he feels Adam’s presence in his home. This time, he’s so far gone that he sees him on their once-shared sofa, a safe place where they used to watch old movies together or talk about work over a cup of coffee.

That safety, that warmth, those memories draw him toward the sofa. He practically collapses down on it, still trembling from his almost fully blown panic attack.

“It’s tough to work on your arm when you’re in this state,” Pidge says. “Do you have your meds?”

His breathing is fast and unnatural, but Shiro manages a nod and gestures to a cabinet with his good arm. There, Pidge finds two full prescription bottles of what she thinks is some kind of generic Xanax. It’s hard to read as the printed ink has faded — so faded that she can barely make out when the medications expired. She swears under her breath and dumps the bottles’ contents down a running kitchen sink, rinsing the pills down to their base elements. “Well,” she says, flatter than a bicycle tire with nails hammered into it, “We’ll have to do this unmedicated.”

Though his thoughts are scattered, Shiro is grateful she doesn’t ask what he knows is on the tip of her tongue: _ “Why haven’t you been taking your fucking meds?” _

When Pidge finishes setting up her equipment (her laptop, some wires, and what appears to be an Altean screwdriver of sorts) and is about to connect his arm to her computer, Shiro finds his voice. “I’m sorry.”

She snorts. “Yeah, well, you might be more sorry by the time I’m done working on you.” Pidge fires up her laptop, and the cable connecting his arm to it hums and glows a blinding silvery-white in the dim apartment. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”

The light reflects off her glasses, making it near impossible to see her eyes. It doesn’t help that she’s looking down at his arm, brows furrowed, focused, as the Altean tool buzzes. It’s loud enough Shiro has to shout to get Pidge’s attention. “About your hand.”

The buzzing dies down, shifting into a more gentle thrum. “What about it?”

“I hurt you.”

“No, you didn’t. That wasn’t you. Now hold still — we’re a little less than halfway done.”

Not even a second before she can turn it on, a “stop” slips out of Shiro’s mouth. “Please.”

“Fine.” She sets the tool down on the coffee table. A muscle in her jaw twitches — Shiro’s certain it’s out of annoyance. “Tell me why you don’t want me helping you out.”

“That’s not —”

“Nope, I’m declaring this a lie-free zone. Seriously, what’s wrong? I know you’ve struggled with just about every adjustment I’ve made to your old arm, but you’d at least let me open it up.”

“Pidge, it’s my fault. Maybe if I’d fought harder, he wouldn’t have taken over. I wouldn’t have hurt you. I’d still be piloting Black. And maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t… she’d still be…” A small, familiar hand brushes away tears he didn’t realize were falling. “This arm is all I have left of her.”

“I miss Allura, too, Shiro. But you have all your memories of her.”

He shakes his head. “Do I, though? I don’t know which memories of her are real. Sometimes, I wake up and I can’t help but think everything that happened was a dream, o-or that maybe I’m still stuck in some Galra simulation—” He’s panting for air now, chest heaving, panicking, trying to hold on to something good, something safe, something real…

Pidge snatches his good hand and presses it against her cheek. It’s damp and cool. It feels good. “Shiro — no. Takashi.”

His breath hitches.

“I am here. I am real. You are safe. I won’t let anything bad happen to you. You know that, right?”

Shiro nods, clinging to every single word.

“Good. And you and I both know that Allura would not want your new arm to hurt you. So tell me, is it hurting you?”

“Seven.”

“Like on a scale of one to ten? It’s a seven?”

“Seven.”

“I’ll bring it back down to zero. I’ll leave her crystal intact. It will work the way it’s supposed to. I won’t add any upgrades or anything, I promise.”

He nods again. His breaths are still unsteady, but better than before.

“Takashi, focus on my breathing and do it with me. Can you do that?”

A nod. He closes his eyes and does as he’s told.

“Breathe in through your nose for five seconds…” Pidge counts the time down. “And breathe it all back out through your mouth for five... four…”

They do this three more times until he’s more stable.

“Good job. Keep doing that. Focus on that and nothing else. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

And he does. The hums and thrums and buzzes fade into the background as he continues to breathe, just like Pidge instructed him. He isn’t sure how much time passes until Pidge tells him she’s done; it could be five minutes; it could be two hours.

“How does it feel?”

“Better.”

She arches a brow. “Are you telling me the truth? Remember, this is still a lie-free zone.” Despite her stern tone, her lips are quirked into a bright smile.

It’s infectious, that smile. Shiro feels his mouth struggle to return it, and he’s sure he looks like an idiot. “Yeah.” Not only does he look like one, he sounds like one, too. Great. “It looks amazing.”

“I didn’t change how it looks, I asked how it felt. Better doesn’t mean you’re not feeling any pain.”

He reaches out to her with his airborne hand and cups half of her face. “There’s no pain.” A single brush of his thumb against her cheek informs him that her face’s temperature is rising due to the rush of blood rising to that area. She’s blushing.

More data enters his mind, telling him that she’s not showing any signs of distress, and that in fact, she might like this... a lot. It’s information overload, but it’s enough to encourage Shiro to lean in for a kiss.

Pidge doesn’t flinch or turn away; she reciprocates the kiss, running her hands through his hair, pulling herself closer and closer until she’s almost on his lap, feeling him strain against his pants, and oh fuck, he wants her, he wants this, but does she?

He’s broken, and no one knows that better than her. She deserves better than him. That’s a fact. And even if she returned his feelings… it only would be out of pity. She pitied him. She didn’t love him. No one could love him, not like this.

Shiro pushes Pidge off of him, onto the couch, just moments after she began to unzip his pants. “I’m sorry. I-I should go.” He fumbles with his zipper and almost walks out the door until he remembers that this is his apartment, not hers. “Thanks for your help.”

She ignores his thanks and slams the door behind her — a loud announcement for her almost-but-not-quite walk of shame down the hallway.

* * *

_ Shiro we need to talk _

_ Talk to me Shiro _

_ I’m serious _

_ Missed calls (14) _

_ Voicemails (6) _

Around noon and midnight, Shiro’s phone nearly vibrates off of whatever surface he’s last left it on. He’s not exactly known for having good luck, so he’s thankful for whatever deity out there has decided to save his phone from falling to the ground and breaking.

He’s less thankful, however, that his students can’t seem to keep their business to themselves. They’re a nosy, cheeky bunch, but at least they haven’t stolen his car (knock on wood). He’s caught them peering at his phone and poring over these texts.

One of his more outgoing students is sure to shout, “That’s Captain Shirogane’s boyfriend!” whenever his phone buzzes.

With each passing day, he’s more and more tempted to correct the little shit with a firm “That’s not my boyfriend,” but that would only rile them up more.

So he sticks to suffering and ignoring Pidge’s texts and calls. Eventually, she’d give up on him. People always did. It’s why he refused to give up on Keith getting into the Garrison and trying (failing) to get him to stay here. It’s why he never gave up in battle. Giving up was not an option for anything in his life… except for the people he surrounded himself with, give or take a few exceptions, such as Samuel Holt.

But after what happened between him and Pidge, maybe it’s best not to reach out to Sam.

Fate, however, has other plans.

“Captain Shirogane, can I ask you a favor?” Mitch Iverson, recently promoted to Admiral, looks down at Shiro through a scarred sneer. The war hadn’t been kind to most, and it certainly hadn’t been kind to Iverson’s face. Some of his facial muscles didn’t work they way they used to, leaving his face eternally etched in a scowl.

“Of course. What can I do for you?”

Iverson plops a heavy tome on Shiro’s desk. “Holt forgot this book. I don’t remember what he said he was working on — some thingamajig or another. You know how those engineers are.” He clears his throat and smiles sheepishly. “Anyways, if you could drop this off at his place, I’d really appreciate it.”

Likewise, Shiro appreciates that fact that Iverson doesn’t say that he’d owe him one. Iverson is indebted to Shiro in so many ways — none of them are things either man likes to think about. “Sure thing, Mitch.”

Iverson chuckles at Shiro’s refusal to acknowledge his new rank, let alone calling him by his last name. They both have loosened up.

“It’s funny. Not all that long ago, I never thought I’d hear you laugh.”

“And I never would’ve thought I’d hear you call me Mitch.” Iverson looks out of the office window. Peoples — not people anymore — of all shapes, sizes, colors, and worlds are working together, surely speaking in a variety of tongues, learning from and with one another. “Things have really changed around here for the better, haven’t they?”

“I like to think so,” Shiro replies. “I hope so.” He moves next to Iverson with Sam’s book in hand. “Aside from dropping this off, is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

“Yeah, actually…” Iverson runs a hand through this thinning, graying hairline. “I’m thinking about retiring.”

White eyebrows shoot up, just to the point where they’re hidden behind Shiro’s forelock. “I-I respect whatever decision you choose, sir.”

A laugh rumbles from Iverson’s gut. “And then again, maybe some things don’t change.” His eye twinkles. “Whaddya plan to do, Captain? You know the Garrison’s probably going to be doing your annual review, which I am sure will be stellar.”

“You’re too kind, sir.”

Iverson flicks Shiro on the forehead. A playful gesture from a man Shiro respects, more or less. “Are you really gonna stay with the Garrison until you’re a bitter old man like me? Surely there are other things you want to do with your life.”

“I don’t understand.”

Iverson sighs and shakes his head. “Most of you kids are so preoccupied with the now. But you, Shiro, you’re stuck in the past. You should start thinking about your future. I mean, don’t you want to settle down? Raise a family?”

“I…” Shiro hesitates. Is that what he wants? Is that what Adam would have wanted?

“Takashi, I’ve known you long enough. You don’t do things for yourself very often.”

_ Because when I do, people get hurt. People die. Just look at Adam!  _ Shiro grips the book in his hand tighter.

“What I’m trying to say is that I want you to be happy. You deserve that. And I know there’s a number of people who’d do anything for you.” Iverson pats Shiro firmly on the shoulder. “I’ll see you ‘round. And give Samuel and the missus my regards.”

“Yes, sir.” Shiro’s too lost, too confused to properly salute to Iverson as he steps out the sliding door. He looks down to the book, and then to the clock on the wall.

It’s long past his shift as it is. Maybe it’d be good for him to step away, out from beneath the Garrison’s shadow.

Just for today, anyways.

* * *

By the time Shiro arrives at the Holt residence, it’s already dusk. Judging by the fact the lights are still on, someone’s home.

He lowers his head as he exits his vehicle — one of the chunky Garrison rovers. As much as Shiro thinks he could be able to put the Garrison behind him if he had to (if he wanted to), it’s dawning on him that it may be harder to resist its pull. Pretty much everything he has is Garrison-issued or funded: his apartment, his car, his uniforms (and therefore, his wardrobe).

If he were to decide to resign this year, what would happen? What would he do after that?

_ “Don’t you want to settle down? Raise a family?” _ His conversation with Iverson loops in his mind.  _ What exactly was Iverson trying to say? _

He doesn’t have much time to ponder further, as Bae-Bae’s muffled barks from behind the door remind him he’s by the doorstep of Sam’s house. He rings the doorbell and waits, setting the dog off even more.

Tumblers click while the door is unlocked, and it creaks as it’s opened by the last person Shiro expects to see here. “Pidge? Why are you here?”

Her nostrils flare at the question. Shiro imagines, standing in her place, a tiny dragon spitting fire and smoke through its nose and mouth. “I  _ live _ here. Why the fuck are  _ you _ here?”

OK, so she was probably less than pleased with Shiro ignoring her messages. “Iverson said —”

Pidge slams the door in his face.

Shiro knocks again. “Please, just let me talk.”

She opens it a crack, barely enough so Shiro can see one of her eyes. “Oh, so  _ now _ you want to talk?”

“Listen, your dad left a book at work. I’m here to return it.”

Hearing the creak of the door starting to close, Shiro knows she’s going to slam it again. Before she can, Shiro hurls himself against the door, creating a wider opening as he manages to make it through, but not without toppling over Pidge and landing in a rather compromising position.

He’s hunched over her, palms flat against the floor, positioned like he’s about to do push-ups with a wide-eyed Pidge flat on her back, parallel to his torso.

Time slows down. The seconds that pass between them feel like at least an hour.

“You know, I never took you for a top.”

Shiro chokes on his own breath and quickly sits upright. “S-sorry. I’m just here to—”

“Return my dad’s book. You’ve already said that.” She peers at him, eyes narrowed, like she’s studying him. “So, where’s the book?”

Shiro pats himself down with a level of expertise that TSA agents would envy. “I must’ve left it in the car.” He stood up and started for the car but stopped before the door. “Listen, about last time. It was a mistake—”

“A mistake?”

Shiro flinches.

“No, no, no.  _ I _ don’t make mistakes. No, wait.” Her brows furrow. “I do make mistakes. A lot of them. Like last week, I should have slept more, especially because I had to give a presentation that I didn’t exactly practice doing, to get more funding for my terraforming project. So, two mistakes.”

“Pidge—”

“Those mistakes are beside the point! But that day, that kiss… none of that was a mistake. So don’t give me any of that bullshit. It was not a mistake.” Her voice cracks and wavers. “So why… why wouldn’t you return my texts? I called you, for god's sake! I left voicemails!  _ Voicemails! _ No one even leaves those anymore! Please tell me you at least listened to one.”

“I didn’t.” He twists the doorknob back and forth. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.” Pidge laughs bitterly. “If you were sorry, you’d tell me, right now, what is happening between us instead of leaving like a dog with its tail between its legs.”

_ That _ gives Shiro pause. He withdraws his hand from the doorknob, letting it fall to his side. He glances over his shoulder. “You’re right,” he says coolly. “I’m not sorry.”

“Fuck you.” She’s angry enough to spit venom at him.

“I’m not sorry about what happened.” He turns around to face Pidge. “It wasn’t a mistake. That kiss wasn’t a mistake.” He takes a step toward her. “I was running away from you. From my feelings. I don’t know exactly what’s happening between us, but… could we explore that? Like an experiment?”

“A simulation. The word you’re looking for is simulation.” Any further explanation is cut off by his lips on hers, gentle and smooth meeting rough and chapped. She wraps one arm around his neck and swings a leg around his waist, each limb swiftly met by its partner. Like him, she’s curious and hungry.

By the time they’ve stripped off their clothes and found their way into Pidge’s bed, Sam’s book is long forgotten.

* * *

“Pidge, are you up?”

_ Shit. _ If Matt walked in right now, he’d never hear the end of it. Shiro frees himself from the tangled sheets, slick with sweat and other bodily fluids he’d rather not think about. He jolts out of the bed, feet hitting the hardwood floor with more force than he would like.

His boxers are right where he left them, standing out from the smooth oaken boards in a pool of an oversized green sweater and his white and orange uniform. He slides his boxers on.

Matt knocks again. “Come on, Pidge, Mom’s making breakfast!”

He looks to Pidge, who’s still out cold, then to the window above the bed. Fight or flight. Either Shiro could try to explain what happened to Matt or he could hop out the window, into his car, and back to his apartment.

“She says there’s plenty of food for Shiro, too.”

It’s too late. No time for a walk of shame (or rather, a hasty run of shame out to his car and eventually a loud, speedy getaway). Shame? No. That’s not it.

Shiro is not ashamed of his relationship with Pidge, whatever it is. He doesn’t know exactly what this is. He wouldn’t mind being her booty call or fling, but a part of him knows he wants more out of it than sex. There’s history between the two of them. Shared traumas, shared insecurities, shared interests, shared dreams. 

_ “What I’m trying to say is that I want you to be happy. You deserve that. And I know there’s a number of people who’d do anything for you.” _

Maybe this was what Iverson was trying to tell him. That he’s worthy of someone’s love and affection.

The sheets rustle with movement. Pidge rolls over on her side, still wrapped in blankets like a burrito. Her hair is tousled and her lips are full and red from his kisses. Those lips, those beautiful, talented lips, peel back a smile. “Morning, Takashi.”

This is the moment when Shiro knows, with more certainty than anything else, that he wants to wake up next to her like this for the rest of his life. He can only hope this turns out to be more than a one-night stand or an occasional fling.

“Good morning, Katie.”

* * *

Wishing upon a star is not something Shiro has ever believed in doing, and yet, he finds himself doing that every time he sees that brilliant spark alight in Pidge’s amber eyes.

Maybe there’s more to that than he realizes, as his wish is coming true.

When Pidge isn’t working on her terraforming project, she’s grabbing lunch at the Garrison commissary with Shiro or pulling him into secret corridors and tunnels only the daughter of a commander would’ve known from her youth.

He spends less and less time at his apartment and more time at her parents’ house. Out of all the Holts, Matt seems to be the only one who’s concerned about his sister bringing home his best friend nearly every night. (Shiro swears that Matt’s stashing condoms in Pidge’s top dresser drawer. Each week the drawer has a fresh box, and he’s spent enough time with Pidge to know she’s not the one who’s buying them.)

Colleen and Sam are pleased to have a new person in the house joining them for breakfast, and damn, can Sam cook a mean omelette. They tease their daughter about how they’d thought she finally found someone who’d get her to leave the nest, only for her to spend more time at home with Shiro when she’s not working.

Simply put, everything is falling into its place, and Shiro can’t imagine things changing anytime soon.

But that’s the thing with change. It’s the only constant in life.

* * *

During one of the rare nights where Pidge stays at Shiro’s place, he asks her about how her terraforming project is going.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” she says, attempting to stab a piece of sweet and sour chicken with a chopstick.

Shiro frowns — mainly at her terrible form and improper use of the utensil. “OK?”

She dips the fried dish in the pink sauce. “It’s a success. A huge success.”

“That’s amazing, Katie.” He beams at her. She really is amazing, and he means every word.

“Yeah.” Pidge stirs the chicken around in the sauce for a few seconds. Her lower lip juts out in a pout. “It is.”

“Then why aren’t you acting like it is?”

She stops playing around with her food. “Because my contract’s up with the Garrison.”

“What?” Shiro’s fist bangs the table. “They’d be stupid not to hire you permanently. I’ll go in and talk to Iverson myself—”

“No need.” Pidge blows her bangs out of her face. “They offered me a full-time job, actually.”

Shiro’s face falls. “Then why didn’t you take it?”

“You know, I’ve never understood why you stayed with the Garrison all this time. They blamed my brother and dad’s death on pilot error. On  _ you. _ They lied about everything. They threatened to charge me with treason. They lied to the public for as long as they could about everything.” She shakes her head. “I cannot — I will not work for them.”

The apartment falls quiet for a few minutes.

“Then what are you going to do?”

Pidge takes a deep breath. “I’ve been hired at another organization. They want me to work on robotics, possibly even prosthetics like the one you have. I could change lives, Shiro.”

“But your terraforming work could change  _ and _ save lives! The Garrison needs you, Pidge.”  _ I need you. _

“It’s at a nonprofit organization. They’re transparent about where their funds come from and what they’re doing with the money. I don’t trust the Garrison, Shiro. I mean, they control every aspect of your life! Look around you!”

Shiro doesn’t have to do that to know that’s true. Nothing here is his. Everything’s Garrison-issued and up to their regulations and standards. If he leaves, he’ll have nothing but his name, every penny he hasn’t spent yet, and a nice pension.

“How long—” Shiro’s voice falters, the pain in his voice clear as a bell. “When were you going to tell me?”

“I accepted the offer this afternoon,” she confesses. “I didn’t expect to get the job, but it’s what I want to do, Shiro, and I’ll be free of the Garrison. Don’t you wonder what that’d be like?”

The Garrison’s all he has ever known, save for those odd years with Voltron and the coalition. But still… it’s the Garrison. His family is here. But then again, with Iverson retiring ( _ Adam! _ ), most of those he considers family are gone.

“Where’s it at?”

“Phoenix, Arizona.”

Shiro closes his eyes and nods slowly. “OK. That’s… a little farther than I thought you’d go.”

“It’s not all that far from here in Roswell. I could visit on weekends, or you could visit me.” She reaches out to squeeze his hand. “It’s not like we’re universes away, you know.”

Shiro pulls back from her hold. “I know, I know. It’s just… I thought you’d stay.”

“And I thought you might consider coming along.” She shakes her head and flashes him a pained smile. “But I know how important the Garrison is to you.”

_It’s not as important as you are._ _Not even close._ “Uh, yeah,” he mumbles. “So, are you going to go look at houses and stuff?”

“Yeah. I’ll be flying out Wednesday.” She pauses. It’s uncomfortable, judging by how she shifts in her seat and continues to poke and prod her food. “Shiro, what are we doing?”

“What do you mean?”

Pidge runs a hand through her hair. “You know me. I don’t like putting labels on things.”

“Packing is going to be a bitch in that case,” Shiro jokes, resulting in an icy glare from Pidge. “Sorry.”

She continues right where she left off. “But labels also help clarify things, too. And don’t you worry, I’ll be sure to label my computers and chargers when I box them up. All the important stuff.” Pidge smiles a little, but that smile falls nearly as soon as it appeared. “We’re friends. I know that much. But are we friends with benefits? Are we dating? I don’t know, and I hate that. I hate not knowing things more than anything else, which is why this whole thing we’ve been doing is driving me crazy, but I tolerate it because I love you.”

The fork in Shiro’s hand drops to his plate with a clatter. His mouth is moving but nothing’s coming out.

Pidge’s cheeks are rosy, and it’s certainly not from the bottle of wine they’ve been sharing this evening. “I should get going. I don’t know when I’ll next see you, but please take care of yourself. I’m not always going to be around when you need it.”

That last sentence strikes a crushing blow to Shiro. The very notion of Pidge not being around is one he can barely fathom at this point. At what point did he start feeling like they were interconnected pieces of a puzzle? When did he start loving her this much?

_ I love her. _

His brain’s processing, but it’s too much.

Pidge leaves without Shiro getting a word in.

Not even a goodbye.

* * *

“Hey, Mitch.” Shiro saunters into Admiral Iverson’s office with a confidence he never realized he had until now.

Iverson grunts in reply.

“Remember that conversation we had a little while back? When you had me drop off Commander Holt’s book?”

“I believe I just might. What of it?”

Shiro pulls out a white envelope from his uniform’s breast pocket. “I’m resigning as of today.”

Iverson looks up at Shiro, then down to the envelope again before taking it. He eases himself into his chair and whistles. “I didn’t know if you’d actually do it.”

“You were right. I deserve happiness, and I’ve found someone I want to share it with.”

Iverson leans back into his chair, at ease — maybe even at peace. “May I ask who that special person is?”

“Commander Holt’s daughter. Katie.”

Now that gets a reaction from Iverson. He splutters and coughs, which turn into deep belly laughs. Iverson wipes tears from his eyes. “Don’t you ever let that kid tell you that I didn’t ever do her any favors.”

“I don’t know, Mitch. She makes a good argument against the Garrison.”

“‘Course she does, she’s a Holt. A stubborn pain in the ass. You’re perfect for each other.”

Shiro can’t find it in him to disagree. “Yeah. Even her dad gave me his blessing.”

“No shit.” Iverson leans forward, almost hunched in a crouch. “I never thought he’d ever be the type to let his baby girl date anyone.”

“When she’s got a robotic Green Lion on her side as well as a history of saving the universe, I’d think it’d be kind of hard to let anything stop her.”

“You’re definitely right about that.” Iverson offers Shiro his hand. “It was a pleasure flying with you, Takashi.”

Shiro takes it and shakes it firmly. “Likewise, Mitch. Likewise.”

* * *

It’s too early to be awake at this hour, and coffee isn’t going to be enough to save Pidge from all of the hustle and bustle at the airport. And it doesn’t help she’s waiting in line to order hers. “I knew I should’ve just taken Green there,” she mutters. 

“Isn’t that against Garrison protocol? Not that you’d follow it.”

Pidge scans left and right. No, it couldn’t be…

Shiro’s walking toward her with two coffee cups cradled in one arm and a suitcase dragged by the other. “You like your coffee black, right?”

“What the fuck are you doing here? You have a class to teach!”

He laughs. “Not anymore. I’ve got a plane to catch. Remind me, are you a window seat or an aisle seat person?”

“Window, but that’s beside the point!”

Shiro pulls his data pad out of his pocket. “Hm, I’m in 6A, and if what your dad told me is right, you’re in 6C. Do you want to swap spots? Or maybe we could ask whoever’s in 6B to take the aisle seat so we could sit next to each other?”

“Ugh, just give me my coffee.” Pidge swipes the cup out of his arm and takes a couple gingerly sips. “OK, now I’m caffeinated enough to process most things. Except this.” She gestures to all of Shiro. “What do you mean you’re not teaching?”

“You’re the smartest person I know. You tell me.”

Her eyes widen. “I know exactly what you did, but my brain refuses to compute that this is real. You actually quit the Garrison.”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“Because I’ve been thinking about us.” Shiro shakes his head. “No, about you. In fact, I can’t stop thinking about you. We’ve spent so much time together over the past 10 months, and the idea of you not being there… it scared me.” When he says it aloud, he realizes how silly, how cowardly, he sounds — no, he is. “Maybe you’re ready to say goodbye or do a long-distance relationship, but I’m not. I want to go with you. I don’t know where we’ll be going—”

“Shiro.”

“—But I want to go with you. I want to be with you. I want to wake up every morning with you by my side. I want to eat breakfast with you every morning. I want to sleep with you. I want to spend every single possible moment I can with you because I can’t imagine living any other way.”

“Shiro?”

“And maybe, in the future, we could settle down. Adopt a dog. Get married. Start a family. I mean, I’d like kids, but they’re certainly not a dealbreaker—”

“Shiro!” Her outburst  _ finally _ gets him to stop talking. “Stop acting like Nicholas Cage in  _ The Family Man _ because our flight is boarding right now.”

“Oh, shit.”

* * *

They’re quite the sight: two people of very different heights and ethnicities holding hands while running at full speed to their terminal. They barely make it, and they’re gasping for breath due to the physical exertion and from crying and laughing.

The person in 6B is kind enough to take the window seat. Pidge isn’t too upset about losing that seat; the aisle seat is better than the middle, which Shiro’s kind enough to take.

As the plane prepares for takeoff, Shiro takes Pidge’s hand into his own. “I never got to say it before you left my apartment. I love you, Katie.”

She pats the top of his hand with her freed one. “You don’t have to. You already said it earlier.” She flashes that dangerous smile. “Also, you’d better be serious about adopting a dog.”

He chuckles. “I am serious. We’ll need a big backyard. Yards are a lot of work, you know.”

“And so are kids.”

Shiro pales.

“You’re the one who said it, not me.” Pidge leans over to rest her head on his shoulder. It’s not the most comfortable place to rest her head, but for the foreseeable future, it’ll do. “But we’ve got nothing but time and each other. That’s not so bad, is it?”

Shiro closes his eyes and imagines what their house might look like, what their future might hold, whether it’s in this reality or another one.

He imagines a tiny apartment with just enough room for the two of them with doors that he’d have to duck under upon entry and exit; a place that’s so big it could house every single Paladin at once and more; a home that’s somewhere in the middle size-wise with a sprawling backyard.

He imagines Pidge squealing over the tiniest pipsqueak of a puppy; her picking out the meanest-looking dog in the shelter; her finding a three-legged stray and building him a new leg from scrap metal.

He imagines a future without children, freeing them to go on adventures, visiting Keith more regularly and helping on his rescue missions with the Blades, traveling to Cuba to see Lance, and dining out at Hunk’s five-star restaurant; the two of them adopting an alien who was displaced due to the war and helping them through trauma as their new parents; Pidge so heavily pregnant that he has to carry her everywhere and do it carefully to avoid stepping on the kids they already have who are playing underfoot.

The possibilities are endless and infinite, but in every single reality he can think of, he’s always with Pidge, and at the end of the day, that’s all he needs.

“Not bad at all.”


End file.
